Actually in block because I have no ideas for the new suitors… maybe just one for Philomache but it’s only the animal (flamingo) but I have no idea for design I wanna cry-

I miss messy and sinner.. they inspired me so much 😿 my wives…

I’ve actually followed some traditional indian wear, the Dhoti!

Found this on Pinterest! I know most definitely it doesn’t match with the time period but shhhhhhh details…/hj

The Debt

Tamasvi was born the second daughter of Indian servants whose family had served the same sultan for generations. Service was not merely their occupation — it was their inheritance.

Her father had been born in the palace, raised alongside the sultan himself. They were the same age, educated together, bound by a loyalty that blurred the line between servant and brother. Because of this bond, the sultan trusted him completely — and allowed his children to grow up beside the royal heirs.

The sultan had three children: an eldest daughter, a son, and a youngest daughter.

Viresh, Tamasvi’s older brother, grew up inseparable from the sultan’s son. They trained together, studied together, laughed together — much like their fathers had once done. Viresh also spent a great deal of time with the eldest princess, his equal in age, wit, and recklessness.

They called each other friends.

But everyone knew it was more than that.

Viresh was charming, restless, dangerously charismatic. He flirted openly, moved easily among nobles, helped them navigate the city, the night, the world beyond the palace walls. And with the princess, the flirtation never truly stopped. They both wanted more — but the weight of class and blood made that desire forbidden.

So they hid it.

Everyone pretended not to see.

Everyone except Tamasvi.

She noticed the pauses, the exchanged glances, the way silence settled differently when they were together. No one ever confirmed it to her, but she did not need confirmation.

The truth revealed itself one night.

The sultan entered his daughter’s chambers and found her shaken, pale, standing unnaturally close to a wardrobe. Suspicion turned to fury. When he forced it open, he found Viresh hiding inside.

The scandal was unforgivable.

By law and tradition, Viresh should have been executed — not only for dishonoring a princess, but for daring to do so as a servant. Yet the sultan could not do it. He had watched the boy grow. He had known him since birth.

So instead, he punished the family.

He declared that everyone had known. Everyone had hidden it. And thus everyone would pay.

He placed a crushing debt upon them — one so vast it could only be repaid by sacrifice.

Tamasvi was sold.

She was not accused. She was not guilty. She was simply available.

Her journey took her far from home: from the Indian courts, through African ports, into Egypt, and finally across the sea to Greece. Each sale stripped her of another piece of herself. Her body became currency. Her movement became spectacle.

She was trained to dance.

Not for joy. For survival.

By the time she reached Ithaca, sold into the palace of Odysseus as a servant and dancer, Tamasvi had learned a truth she would never forget:

Love does not protect you.

Power decides who pays.

And she learned to watch. To listen. To survive.

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🏛️Tamasvi — Backstory

Origin: A coastal village on the Indian subcontinent

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Tamasvi was born at twilight, the sky folding gently into sea, and her mother said:

“She came without a cry, like dusk itself—too wise for a child.”

Her family was neither cruel nor warm.

Her father honored duty. Her mother honored silence.

Her older brother, Viresh, was five years older and treated her like glass.

In her house, there was no room for error.

Stitching must be neat.

Feet must not drag.

Emotions must be clean, folded, and put away.

Tamasvi never shouted.

She never wept where anyone could hear.

Every moment she disappointed was met with quiet disapproval, not rage.

But silence wounds just as deeply.

So she folded herself smaller, and smaller—until she nearly disappeared.

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When she was twelve, she was sent away.

A debt needed repayment:

Tamasvi’s parents were born into servitude in the palace of a minor but proud sultan in a princely state of India — one not among the grandest, but one steeped in tradition, hierarchy, and honor codes older than memory.

They served with diligence and silence. For generations, their family tended to silks, spices, and secrets.

But Viresh, Tamasvi’s older brother, was not made for silence.

He was seventeen — fiery-eyed, bold, with a dangerous softness in him that the sultan’s eldest daughter noticed. She was the same age as Viresh, beautiful, bored, and locked behind jasmine-scented walls. The two began to speak behind columns, laugh at ceremonies, until one night they were found — laying together — by a eunuch servant loyal to the sultan.

The sultan, cold and pragmatic, demanded a vast financial compensation to ensure the matter remained buried. It was framed as a “gesture of respect,” but it was really a ransom for the family’s survival.

A merchant caravan offered a solution.

Her talents in weaving and perfumery were mentioned. So were “her small hands, her quiet manners.”

She was sold, not for a crime, but for one she didn’t commit.

• Her value, her body, her life — all reduced to a bargaining chip in a male-dominated world obsessed with shame and status.

• She internalized that the world would never see her as anything but a transaction.

• Since then, she’s carried a quiet storm: bitterness, control, fear of losing agency, a hatred of dishonesty, and an almost militant pride in her autonomy.

• She no longer speaks of her parents. Only of Viresh — and even then, rarely.

They said she would serve in a noble houses.

She dressed in new silks and kissed her mother’s hand.

She did not cry—because they didn’t want her to.

But it was a lie.

She was passed between hands like fine glassware—traded from one foreign man to another.

Egypt. Arabia. Somewhere with marble floors and hands that smelled like oil and old metal.

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Eventually, she reached Ithaca, sold by a merchant as a rare domestic servant to Queen Penelope, who accepted her not with cruelty but with that tired, ocean-widowed gaze.

When she first arrived in Ithaca—barely eighteen, dust on her soles and sea in her mouth—she was more shadow than girl.

Everything was strange.

The language.

The salt-thick food.

The coldness of the marble halls.

At first, she was afraid to speak. She carried her shame like a second skin—stiff, salted, stitched too tight.

But Galene noticed her.

Noticed the way she smoothed the linens with both palms. The way her hands never trembled, even when her eyes did.

Galene began to speak to her in soft, broken phrases.

Taught her words in Greek by holding herbs up and naming them.

Sometimes she would simply sit beside her in silence, like sisters who had never been born together.

Then came Melia, all cleverness and daring, and together, they took her “under their wings”—a phrase Melia whispered with a smirk one night as they shared a heel of honeyed bread in the servants’ corridor.

Tamasvi, who had only ever belonged to duty and silence, began to belong to something else.

A small sisterhood.

A shared quiet.

A room where no one asked why you didn’t want to talk about home.

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She dreams of Viresh sometimes.

But she doesn’t want to see him again.

He let her be sold—once, maybe twice.

To an Egyptian noble who beat her servants.

He told himself he was protecting her, but Tamasvi now knows:

“A brother who loves you doesn’t sell you like perfume.”

She no longer waits to be rescued.

She does not want to return.

Her world is here and now, among the other women, Among friends, among linen, oil, ash, and the warmth of things that do not ask questions.

.

.

Tamasvi has grown up watching Viresh burn himself down for love and guilt, and drag her with him every time. She hates him for it. She loves him too much to leave him. He’s her brother. But his presence is both her safety and her prison.

She once told Lysandra:

“He thinks he’s protecting me. But he’s just making me tired.”

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Character mentioned in the story:

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